


Reconciling

by CourtingDisaster



Series: Canon Divergent [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Longing, Season/Series 8, angsty pining, everyone else is pretty over it, ish, respect, seriously just kiss already, show canon-compliant, small rescue mission, some snark from bronn and tyrion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-11-14 12:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourtingDisaster/pseuds/CourtingDisaster
Summary: Brienne wants to welcome Jaime to Winterfell as an ally (finally!), but he won't come near her. His forced isolation is painful and confusing...until another unexpected arrival at Winterfell makes things clear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Couple more chapters left for "Never A Bride," but they're both short so I decided to start posting this one. This will be a much shorter fic, probably only 3 or 4 chapters at most. It also kind of surprised me. I have about 4-5 ideas I'm excited to write, but this showed up and wouldn't leave me alone.
> 
> After this, I'll be working on another long-ish modern-AU fic which is (VERY loosely) based on the movie "While You Were Sleeping."
> 
> Thank you for all your support on my writing!

**Author's Note:** I have a [tumblr](https://courtingdisasters.tumblr.com/) too, in case anyone is interested. I post updates and sometimes chapter previews there, among all the other amazing fan-made content.

 

* * *

 

 

A thrumming, palpable tension had settled over Winterfell when Jaime Lannister arrived without an army at his back. He had ridden through the gates nearly frozen solid, and though he was staggering with fatigue he’d insisted on meeting with the Dragon Queen and Jon Snow at once. Brienne had been in the courtyard when his horse had stumbled in. She had been curious about the lone rider approaching the stronghold and worried it had been one of the scouts returning alone after some misfortune. None of their scouts ranged alone, so she was braced for bad news. She had not been braced for Jaime. Their eyes caught and held for a moment, his gaze so intense that she felt her cheeks burn under his scrutiny. Then he’d gone, marching resolutely into the dragon’s maw without stopping even to take refreshment—not that anyone had rushed forward to offer him Winterfell’s bread and salt. Lacking even the thin shield of guest right, he’d gone to give his not-quite-former enemies even more grim tidings.

He’d survived the encounter, though how was a great mystery to most of those sheltering within the castle. Brienne had been relieved to see him walking around the castle as a free man the next day, and she could tell Pod shared her relief. Few others did. Jaime seemed to sense this and kept to himself. He was not invited to strategy meetings or made aware of the critical factors at play: no one told him how many men they had, what their food stores could stand, or how quickly the dragon glass could be mined and shipped to White Harbor in order to produce the weapons they needed to kill the White Walkers. She wasn’t sure he’d been told that the Night King now had a dragon of his own, though she was certain he’d already noticed that only two of the great beasts flew over the keep. Brienne felt this was a mistake: Jaime was a seasoned commander and one of the few men left in the North that had a wealth of battle experience to draw from. Not to utilize him as one of their commanders in this Great War seemed like the sort of wasteful prejudice they no longer had time to indulge.

For two days, she tried to think of a way to approach him. Words had never come easily to her. She was just as clumsy with a turn of phrase as she was with a needle and thread. And anyway, he didn’t seem to _want_ her company. He prowled around the grounds, looking tousled and grim, and never drew near enough for her to speak to him without having to shout. She knew he’d traveled North at great personal sacrifice and she would have liked to acknowledge that—especially since no one else was likely to—but he refused to give her the chance. So she took her cue from him, straightened her shoulders, and tried not to be so painfully aware of his presence.

It shouldn’t have been difficult. She’d gone years without his presence before. The only occasion they’d ever spent a significant amount of time with one another had been that miserable slog through the Riverlands. After that, there had only been moments. She’d carried each of those moments with her, just as she carried his sword on her hip, but she’d managed to survive without his close physical proximity. It shouldn’t be any different now. Yet she couldn’t stop her eyes from seeking him, couldn’t seem to keep from observing his movements or mourning his isolation. He had come up here to fight for the living, but no one welcomed him to their benches or their fires.

She frowned as she watched him now. He’d draped a pelt over his shoulders, but it hadn’t been properly sewn onto his cloak and he was forced to keep reaching up and adjusting it. It was so bitterly cold that he’d stopped wearing his golden hand; as a result he kept his left arm tucked close to his body and covered it whenever he could. He seemed to be heading for the rookery, and there was a tightness around his mouth that made her own frown deepen.

As though he sensed her gaze, Jaime’s eyes snapped up to hers. His step faltered and she thought for a moment that he might approach her at last…but no. He gave her a tight nod and swerved away, disappearing back inside the castle proper.

“You should talk to him, m’lady,” Pod said. She jumped: she hadn’t heard her squire’s approach, and his words echoed her thoughts nearly word for word.

“Ser Jaime has plenty to do, he doesn’t need me distracting him,” she replied. She was aware of how lame this excuse was: without an army or a place on the war councils, what was there to keep him busy? But she hadn’t been able to think of a reason for _not_ seeking him out, other than his obvious aversion to her company.

“He just seems so lonely.”

Brienne turned her face away from the boy beside her.  “We’re all lonely, Pod.”

“Only one way to fix that, m’lady,” he said cheerfully. When she shot him an arch look, his smile faded a bit and he scrambled off to do something with the horses. As he moved away, her features softened slightly. He was a good lad and she knew sometimes she was too hard on him. When he’d wormed his way under her defenses, she’d never know, but she was determined to give him a chance of survival—no matter how many times he lunged during their sparring sessions.

Perhaps Pod was right. Perhaps it was as easy as walking up to Jaime and saying…something. It was just that whenever she pictured it, all words seemed to abandon her. Yet this distance, when they were closer than they’d been in so long, was driving her mad. The Night King would soon be at the gates, and she didn’t want to face that darkness without telling Jaime she was proud to call him an ally…and proud to call him a friend, if that was indeed what they were.

She pulled in a gulp of icy air. _Tomorrow,_ she promised herself. She’d speak to him tomorrow. Hopefully by then she’d have thought of something to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Jaime's POV


	2. Chapter 2

Winterfell had more scars than he remembered. Of course, the last time Jaime had been here, there had been peace in the realm, it had been summer, and both the Stark and Lannister families had been intact. The lessons he’d learned in the interim had been bought with blood and misery, and the coming months only seemed to promise more. How long could they hold out against an army of more than a hundred thousand dead things? Daenerys Targaryen had lost a dragon somewhere along the way, and he wasn’t too stupid to understand the ramifications of that.

But he’d known that riding North wasn’t about surviving. He was almost certain he would not survive; he had come so that others might. He had come in memory of his fallen children, and of the young squire he’d once been, dreaming dreams of valiant and honorable deeds. And he’d come for his unborn child, though leaving that child also filled him with shame.

Cersei’s betrayal meant he hadn’t arrived as a useful ally: instead he’d come through the gates as a shambling, half-frozen cripple. Jon Snow and Daenerys certainly hadn’t seen much value in him without the Southron armies he _should_ have brought with him. If the Dragon Queen could breathe fire, she probably would have roasted him on the spot. His only saving grace was the fact that her children were too big to squeeze into the echoing stone room.

“We have no need of you, Kingslayer. It was your armies we needed. All you are is another mouth to feed.” Daenerys’ eyes had been as cold and hard as the Wall. “One I in particular am not interested in feeding.”

She and Jon were seated behind a large table situated on a dias above the rest of the room. They were both wrapped in leathers and fur, and Jon Snow looked so much like Ned Stark that Jaime had at first had trouble meeting his eyes. The falling snow darkened the already dim hall, and a ration on candles did nothing to help matters. The room felt like a cave, or a wolf’s den, and Jaime didn’t think he’d be leaving without some teethmarks.

“My queen,” Tyrion said. He had appeared out of the gloom. His dark clothing had hidden him from his brother’s gaze until he was standing beside Daenerys’ chair at the high table. “My brother has come here in good faith, to fight against our common enemy. He can lead an army. He’s the reason we lost Highgarden and failed to hold Casterly Rock. Surely we could find a use for him.”

The words had fallen like pebbles into a still pool, creating ripples in a room full of tension and distrust. Each one was a small shock to Jaime, breaking through his fatigue and offering a bit of warmth. His eyes met Tyrion’s and held his gaze, hoping that his brother could see the wordless yet profound gratitude written on his face.

“He’s a murderer,” Jon said.

“So am I,” Tyrion snapped. “So are large chunks of our Wildling and Dothraki armies. You went South looking for help, and Jaime has arrived to help.” Then he’d turned to Daenerys, and his expression softened to one of supplication. “My queen, you know we need every ally.”

She had turned her face away. Jaime nodded, knowing that to open his mouth now would only make his situation worse. He had not expected much mercy from these people. They had said all their noble words about leaving the old hostilities behind to fight this war, and mayhaps they had meant those words, but accepting Jaime Lannister into the fold without an army to sweeten the deal was clearly going to be a bridge too far.

“I hope you’ll at least grant me safe passage South?” he asked.

“Where will you go?” Tyrion had turned back to him. Tension had drawn deep lines around his brother’s mouth, lines which vanished in his thick beard. Jaime thought his brother looked strained and tired. He shrugged in response to Tyrion’s question.

“Our sister will kill you if you go back.” Now there was a faint note of pleading in Tyrion’s voice, and wounds that hadn’t fully healed cracked open again in Jaime’s chest and bled.

“I sent Bronn to Tarth, to evacuate the Evenstar and his people before the Golden Company swamped the island. Perhaps I can arrive in time to help. He’ll bring them here. They’ll be fishermen and goat herds instead of soldiers, but stronger than the children I saw training in your yard,” Jaime replied.

Jon shifted in his chair, glancing sideways at his queen. He looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Daenerys’ face changed too. Jon was softening, and she was not—but she didn’t want to argue with him in front of Jaime. He wondered if he realized how easy it was to read them, to see the subtext in all of their interactions. Tyrion stood straight, his back rigid with tension.

“You sent a man to save Selwyn Tarth?” Daenerys asked after a long moment. Jaime’s eyes slid to her face. He didn’t answer.

“I know Bronn of the Blackwater,” Tyrion cut in. “He’s…unpolished but resourceful. He may stand a chance of convincing the people of Tarth to leave.”

“I should have gone myself,” Jaime said, his tone bitter with fresh regret. He’d wasted his time coming up here. He should have sent Bronn North with the news of Cersei’s intensions and gone to entreat the Evenstar in person. He hadn’t thought that Selwyn Tarth was like to listen to him, tainted as he was, but he could at least have used his acquaintance with Brienne to better effect than a stranger.

“Why did you do it?” Daenerys asked. “Why save them? Tarth means nothing to the Crown, and the Evenstar isn’t a Lannister bannerman. What interest could you possibly have in their survival?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t do it for _you,”_ Jaime snapped. His temper had finally worn thin. “If I’m to fight for the living, I had better start somewhere.”

He wouldn’t talk about Brienne with this woman. He might tell the whole sordid tale to Tyrion, but he didn’t owe Daenerys anything.

“You can stay,” Jon said suddenly, in a tone of command. Jaime’s eyes snapped to his face, and Tyrion whipped around to stare at him as well. Jon seemed almost as startled by his words as the Lannisters and Daenerys shot him a dark look.

“We may not trust you, Ser Jaime…but we do need all the help we can get. Your actions on behalf of my sister’s sworn sword speak well for you, but don’t mistake me: if we defeat the Night King, you still have much to answer for. And we will start with the maiming of my brother Bran.”

The two men stared at each other across the table. If Jon expected Jaime to argue or to make excuses for himself, he was to be disappointed. After a moment, when he realized no protestations were coming, there was a subtle shift in Jon’s expression. For the foreseeable future at least, they had an understanding. It was tenuous and brittle, but both trusted that neither was going to betray the truce that had been arranged here. At least not while the dead marched on Winterfell.

“You may leave us now,” Daenerys said, and Jaime gave her a small bow. Her eyes narrowed—she probably suspected he was mocking her—but she didn’t say a word as he backed out of the Great Hall. He shivered as he reentered the cold air, but found he preferred a natural winter’s chill to the icy reception he’d gotten inside. The lady of the castle, Sansa Stark, would eventually find him a place to sleep, but he doubted it would be high on her priority list. He looked around the grim grey keep and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

At length he decided to observe and mayhaps assist with the training. He started to make his way across the bailey when he heard the door behind him creak open and his brother call his name. He turned as Tyrion hurried toward him.

“You came. You came North without an army, knowing you’d get a cold welcome at best or a stay in Winterfell’s dungeon at worst. Why did you even bother?” Tyrion asked when he’d caught up. Jaime looked at him and then away again, watching how the snow was drifting down in great clumps from the sky.

“I made a promise,” he said at last.

Tyrion didn’t seem to know what to make of that, so he gave his brother a hard look.

“Did Cersei send you up here as a spy, Jaime? Are you going to betray us?”

Jaime recoiled a step. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t considered the possibility that this is what the Dragon Queen would suspect, but it had never occurred to him. He’d been convinced of the necessity of fighting the dead since that afternoon in the Dragon Pit, and he would make a piss-poor spy.

“No,” he said, controlling a burst of anger. He kept his voice as flat and expressionless as he could manage. “Cersei wanted me killed. She gave the order to the Mountain. I called her bluff. Somehow I made it out of the city.”

“But not without stopping to order Bronn to Tarth.” There was something too curious about Tyrion’s gaze now and Jaime felt himself getting defensive, wanting to protect the truth from anyone that might question his motivations.

“I knew I couldn’t get the word to any of you in time. Bronn found me on my way out of the city. He didn’t want to stay with…he didn’t feel any particular loyalty to the Crown. I sent him to fetch Tarth and bring him North if he could.”

Tyrion didn’t look convinced. “Bronn doesn’t do anything without the promise of a reward. Why would he break with the Crown and fight what is almost certainly a losing battle?”

“He saw first hand what those dragons can do to their mother’s enemies. And…” Jaime shifted uncomfortably. “He thinks Cersei has gone mad.”

“He always was a prudent man. Vulgar but prudent,” Tyrion said thoughtfully. “What did you promise him?”

“Assuming he survives? I suggested a grateful Queen might give him one of the empty castles in the North. Mayhaps he could have the Bolton’s seat. Or perhaps the Eyrie. Even the Evenstar will owe him if he can manage to get the old coot off his island in time. He’ll have his pick of reward. You know as well as I do that there isn’t a stronghold in Westeros that can withstand dragon fire. When Daenerys goes South, she will win. All Bronn has to do is serve her well.” Jaime felt a searing pain in his chest as he spoke the words, but they were true even if they hurt. Cersei would lose the war for the Iron Throne.

“You left our sweet sister, knowing she’ll die if she doesn’t release her hold on the throne?” Tyrion asked. His voice was quiet and careful. Snow was gathering in his hair and beard, and yet he stood there in the cold with eyes that were empathetic, not antagonistic.

“I did.” Jaime swallowed hard. “She wants to die a queen, even if it’s queen of nothing. This is more important.”

Tyrion looked down at his booted feet. Jaime watched his throat working as though he was trying to clear some blockage. His own chest was aching but he tried to fight the emotion down. He wasn’t ready to deal with the fallout just yet. Finally, his brother looked up at him with suspiciously bright eyes.

“I’ve never been a religious man,” he said to Jaime, “but I thank all the gods for whatever it was that brought you here. I thought you would die at her side, still chained to her in spite of what she’s become.”

Another burst of anger flared alive in Jaime’s chest…but it died just as quickly. A deep sadness tugged him like a riptide, threatening to sweep him away when he thought of all the long years he’d wasted at Cersei’s side, when that loyalty had only ever taken him further away from the man he wanted to be. It had cost him everything except his right hand. At least that had been lost for good purpose.

His brain shied away from thoughts of Brienne, however. He had spotted her when he’d arrived, drunk in every detail of her as if her image alone could have shielded him from any scorn or harm. To see her well was a gift he didn’t deserve. But to speak with her? He wasn’t even sure where to start.

“I’ll see to it that a chamber is prepared for you. You have the freedom of the castle. We usually gather to break our fast and to sup. I…I must return to the queen, but…” Tyrion clasped his arm, gripped him hard. “I’m glad you’re here, Jaime.”

A smile ghosted across Jaime’s lips. “I don’t know if I can say I’m glad to be here, but I am glad that we’re on the same side again.”

Tyrion nodded. Then he released his brother and headed back toward the Great Hall. Other men moved out of his way, gave him all the signs of respect that they had so long denied him. Jaime was proud of him, and glad that he’d survived long enough to witness some of Tyrion’s triumphs with his own eyes.

——

The next days passed slowly. No word came from the capital. The Mountain hadn’t come charging up the Kingsroad with orders to bring Jaime’s head back to the queen. And, to his increasing distress, no raven appeared with news from Tarth.

Jaime had seen Brienne more than once. In fact, her eyes seemed to haunt him no matter where he was in the castle, following him through rooms, down hallways or across courtyards. He was surprised at how intense the need to be near her was: her presence caught at him, pulled him toward her even as he fought to stay away. Meeting her eyes made his heart turn over in his chest and sent waves of affection and shame crashing through his veins. Yet he craved the sight of her as much as he craved food or sleep. He watched her moving with purpose and confidence among the men and women in Winterfell and felt nothing but warmth. Her shoulders no longer curled in as she tried to make herself smaller. She walked through the castle with her shoulders thrown back and her hand resting on her sword hilt. She belonged here, she was respected here, and he knew that men would follow her into battle and die for her with pride, knowing their cause was just and that she would carry on with the fight. _He_ would do so, and gladly, and he hoped when the time came that Daenerys would allow him that small request.

Yet he didn’t close the distance he kept between them. Not yet, not without news of her father’s fate. That was the one boon he could offer her and it was pitiful enough as it was. He couldn’t bring himself to ruin any part of what she had won here. Any cavorting with him would certainly tarnish people’s opinions of her, any closeness between them would lead to the old whispers of _Kingslayer’s whore_. He would take nothing further from her.

And there was another reason he couldn’t bridge the divide, one that tore at him throughout the long days and nights more than the freezing winds of the North. If they spoke, he would have to tell her about Cersei, and that meant telling her about Cersei’s pregnancy. The shame of that, and of leaving the child, was hard enough without having to face Brienne’s clear blue eyes.

He wasn’t sure the baby was his. He’d spent long, tormented hours on the journey to Winterfell wondering if it wasn’t in fact Euron Greyjoy’s baby in her belly. He doubted even a greedy kraken would be willing to accept another man’s child, even if Cersei gave him a crown to sweeten the deal. So why had Cersei entertained his proposal, knowing she carried Jaime’s child in her belly? No, it made more sense that she had already won Greyjoy to her side by welcoming him into her bed, then ensured his continued loyalty with the promise of a crown…and an heir.

Still, it was enough that the baby _could_ be Jaime’s and that he’d left anyway, knowing that Cersei would twist and destroy any happiness that child may have. Enough to know that, should he survive long enough to return to King’s Landing, the child would know only that he had disappeared North without even waiting to see his daughter or son born safely.

Of course, if he’d stayed he would have died at the Mountain’s hands. But somehow that didn’t ease the burning guilt that sat in his gut like acid.

Brienne had heard too many of his awful truths already. He made do with the knowledge that he would not have to face her on the field of battle, but would instead fight beside her as he had wanted to do for so long. It felt right, knowing that they were allies. If he could give her a chance to live and see the spring, he would do so without hesitation.

He held the warmth of those thoughts close to his chest, hoping that he wasn’t hurting her by staying away. It certainly hurt _him._

_——_

“There’s no point in brooding, dear brother. Jon Snow does it better than either of us,” said Tyrion the next morning as Jaime stood on a parapet and gazed toward the snowy forests to the north. Above them, the sky was the same stony grey as the castle, and it was _still_ snowing, though gently. This was no weather for a lion, but the beard he’d grown during his travels helped a little, as did the fur he’d thrown over his cloak.

Tyrion walked over to Jaime and because he was too short to look over the parapet, leaned against the rough wall and examined his feet. The silver hand pinned on his chest gleamed even in the dull sunlight. “What is it that’s got you out here frowning at the scenery?”

“I haven’t heard from Bronn. He would have made it to Tarth faster than I could journey this far north, but there have been no ravens.”

“Yes, I admit that is concerning. What does Brienne say?”

“I haven’t spoken with her.” Jaime gave Tyrion an arch look. “And before you lecture me, I don’t intend to until I have some news of her father’s fate.”

Tyrion raised his hands in surrender. “As you wish, brother. I’m not your keeper, I won’t force you to talk to her.”

Silence fell between the two. More snow fell, floating down in gentle tufts that looked soft to the touch. Jaime put his hand out and caught a few, watching them melt in the palm of his gloved hand. It had been a long time since he’d seen snow. Even with the deadly threat coming for them, he found it beautiful.

Just when it seemed as though Tyrion had decided to leave him to his thoughts, Jaime turned to him and asked, “What do you know of her?”

Tyrion blinked at him. “Of Brienne of Tarth? I remember that she was the one that brought you back to King’s Landing after you’d been Robb Stark’s prisoner. I know she’s sworn herself to the Stark girls after swearing a similar oath to their mother. She’s strong, a capable fighter, and everyone who knows her seems to regard her highly.” There was a pause and then he added, while studying Jaime’s face closely, “I know she wields the sword our father had made for you.”

Jaime nodded. He knew he needed to compose his answer carefully, or else his brother would draw all sorts of impossible conclusions. But the truth was that he was tired of carrying around all of the shame and guilt and longing alone.

“I’ve only defied Cersei three times. Just three times in our entire lives. Once, to come here. Once to save you. And once to get Brienne safely out of the capital and on her way to rescue the Stark girls, if she could find them.”

Tyrion stared at him. He didn’t say a word, but Jaime could see the wheels turning in his brother’s mind and knew he’d already revealed too much of what he felt for Brienne.

“And now,” Tyrion added quietly, “you’re trying to save her father.”

“I should have been the one to go to Tarth.” Jaime balled his fist and slammed it down on top of the parapet.

Tyrion pushed away from the stone wall and began to pace, his expression closed and thoughtful. He flicked his eyes to Jaime’s face and he must have seen the anguish there, because he frowned and stopped in his tracks.

“Are you telling me you care for Brienne?”

“Of course I care for her,” Jaime growled. Then, quieter: “She saved my life. I told her the…I told her the truth about Aerys.”

That made Tyrion’s eyes widen. Then they narrowed again, sharp enough to cut through all the confusion Jaime felt.

“You care about this woman enough to tell her everything, to _defy Cersei_ for her, and you won’t speak with her?” Tyrion made a sound of disgusted disbelief. “You know what we’re facing. You know what our fate is most likely to be. You have a chance to spend what little time remains to you with someone you clearly appreciate and admire, and you’re choosing not to? Jaime, few of us have even that much.”

Jaime grit his teeth against a fresh wave of longing for the lady knight. “Cersei is pregnant. I’d have to tell Brienne. How much time do you think she’ll want to spend with me after that?”

“Cersei is a liar. She’s never kept faith with anyone in her entire life, and especially not with you,” Tyrion told him. He didn’t bother to blunt the harsh truth of his words, even when Jaime’s cheeks flushed with reflexive anger. “How you could stomach being near her, I’ll never know, but I very much doubt that it’s a lion cub in her belly.”

Hearing his own suspicions out of Tyrion’s mouth lifted a weight off Jaime’s shoulders. He took a deep breath and savored the relief of it, but reality closed in on him again just seconds later. He shook his head and said, “I can’t tell her I went back to Cersei. She…she thinks I still have some honor left.” His voice cracked and he dropped his gaze to his feet. “She won’t when I tell her.”

Now Tyrion was staring at him in open astonishment. “Seven buggering hells…are you in love with this woman?”

“No!” Jaime snapped, at the same time a voice inside of him whispered, _liar. You’re a craven and a liar._ “No, but she…I owe her a debt.”

“Ah, yes. And we Lannisters always pay our debts.” Tyrion’s grin was cutting and bitter. “I still advise you to speak with her. And you should listen: giving advice is my job and I’m very good at it.”

Jaime’s lips curled a little. “Hand of the Queen is a rather perfect position for you.”

Tyrion smiled and winked, then he turned on his heel and walked away. Jaime watched his brother go, then he turned back to gaze out at the heart of winter. It was time, he knew, to offer Brienne more than a few glances from a distance. He sighed and began to follow his brother back inside the castle. He’d go to the rookery and send another raven to Tarth. Then perhaps he’d find Brienne and speak with her at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these idiots, don't you?
> 
> Next time: the results of Jaime's evacuation of Tarth and a conversation at last!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne have a conversation that is LONG overdue.

**Brienne:**

Another silent week passed between Brienne and Jaime. She didn’t say a word about the situation but Pod often left the training yard with aching muscles: her frustration was obvious in the way she no longer checked the strength of her blows. She never hurt Pod, but his arms felt like lead weights after each round of sparring. When she was not beating her opponents into submission, she found herself glaring at Jaime whenever she spotted him, and he always looked away from her quickly.

“The only thing I remember about meeting Jaime Lannister was that he never stopped talking,” Sansa said. She and Brienne were inspecting the growing stacks of dragonglass weaponry and plate armor. The smithy’s forges were so hot that steam poured into the sky above the squat, open-sided building. Around them, tools clanked in an endless, discordant chorus. “He doesn’t seem to talk much anymore.”

“No, my lady,” Brienne agreed. She needed to remind herself not to grip Oathkeeper’s hilt too tightly or else her hand would begin to ache.

Sansa glanced at her. “I wonder what changed.”

Brienne couldn’t answer. Many theories had occurred to her in the long hours of the night, each possibility more painful or infuriating than the last. Yet there was such a softness to Jaime’s gaze whenever their eyes did meet…she didn’t know what answer she could give. Spotting her anguish, Sansa changed the subject. She gestured toward the new-forged obsidian blades.

“These weapons are beautiful,” she said, “but fragile. It’s hard to imagine them being much good against bone and ice.”

“We can only hope it doesn’t take much force to kill the Wights. Perhaps any contact will work, or the smallest cut,” Brienne suggested. “Gendry has made thousands of arrowheads already, and near as many daggers.”

Her lady nodded, turning her gaze to the small army of blacksmiths laboring at their anvils. Gendry was the youngest of them, but his skill was unmatched and he led them so naturally that many hadn’t realized yet that they sought his guidance at every chance. Arya was often drawn to the forge, drifting around the edges as if she was afraid that the heat would melt her if she entered.

“She’s back,” Sansa said as if she’d heard Brienne’s silent observations. Arya was a fur-clad shadow, slinking around on the far side of the building. Her eyes were locked on Gendry as if he were a riddle. Brienne got the uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly how the younger woman felt.

“She seems…very fond of Gendry, my lady.”

Sansa gave Brienne a rare smile. “I think so too. And I think we should take what chances we have left. But Arya is stubborn. She won’t approach him, and he would never dare to speak to her first. I wish I knew what she was waiting for…”

Sansa’s tone was soft and wistful, but she gave Brienne an extremely pointed look. Brienne felt her cheeks heat under the frankness of her lady’s gaze and she turned away to look at Jaime. He was in the training yard, helping young boys adjust their grips on lances taller than they were. A shard of longing cut through her at the sight of him, as it always did.

“Perhaps Arya knows, as we all do, how futile such things are when we’re facing so evil an enemy,” she said in a quiet voice.

“I disagree. The evil we’re facing makes such things _more_ important, not less. Feelings like theirs remind us all what we’re fighting for.” Sansa smiles. Her eyes were soft and heartbreakingly sad. “Hope, love…what could be more essential in these last days?”

Before Brienne could answer, the call of “Riders! Riders!” was shouted from the gates. The lookouts had tensed and grabbed for weapons, and suddenly the bailey was filling with men. Brienne and Sansa left the suddenly quiet forge, moving quickly toward the gates. Jaime had left the training yard and was climbing to the parapets to see what was coming. Whatever he saw caused him to grab at the the lookouts’ arms, forcing them to lower the bows in their hands so they were not aimed at the people approaching.

“Open the damn gates, will you?” came a shout. “Pointing arrows at a bunch of frozen, seasick folk…shameful.”

“Hold a moment, Bronn!” Jaime called down to the speaker, and at a motion from Sansa, the gates were winched open at once.

When they had finally opened and the first of the riders came through, a shockwave rolled through Brienne so strongly that her vision tilted and Sansa had to grab and steady her. Selwyn Tarth guided an exhausted palfrey into the bailey, his bulk made larger by the warm cloaks he’d wrapped himself in. Behind him, members of his household and the smallfolk of Tarth trailed in, mostly on foot. Many faces were tinged with the green of lingering seasickness. Brienne felt her feet carrying her toward her father, feeling tears filling her eyes without her permission.

“Brienne!” Her father was struggling out of the saddle, eager to embrace his daughter after so many long years of separation. They collided with one another there in the courtyard in front of many of the castle’s defenders, and Brienne no longer fought the tears that streamed down her cheeks. She glanced up and saw Jaime smiling down at them, looking pleased and relieved. Then Selwyn pulled back to look at her, reclaiming her full attention.

“I have much to tell you, daughter. And I imagine you have much to tell me in return.”

“I do,” Brienne said, smiling through her tears. “I certainly do.”

——

**Jaime:**

“Next time you want someone to sail North in winter seas, you can damn well do it yourself, Lannister,” Bronn said as he and Jaime took their seats at a long bench in the Great Hall for supper. “ _You’re_ the one that wants to fuck her, not me.”

“Keep your voice down,” Jaime said in mild tones. “Brienne would remove my remaining hand if I was ever witless enough to come close to her bed.”

Bronn snorted. “Might be worth it. Legs like hers could wrap around a man twice. Don’t need hands for that.”

Jaime shot him a warning glare and then turned his eyes down to the formless slop that half-filled his bowl. “War rations,” he muttered. One never got used to war rations, but an experimental bite proved that it wasn’t completely disgusting.

“Better than hardtack,” Bronn replied, digging into his own stew with apparent relish. “We got out just in time. Two more days and the krakens would have caught us. They nearly did anyway, but our ships had a good enough head start that they turned back toward Storm’s End. We lost two ships in a storm three days before we got to White Harbor, but everyone else made it. Brought food with us too, and a herd of those bastard goats they use for milk and cheese.”

Jaime nodded. “I’m sure the queen will be pleased.”

“You’re sure your lady warrior will be pleased, you mean. You’re not exactly bosom buddies with the queen.” Bronn eyed him from over his own bowl. “I heard news of something else, something you won’t like.”

“Get it over with then,” Jaime said, feeling his appetite fade quickly away. He’d always known that if Bronn made it to Winterfell, any tidings from the rest of the kingdoms he brought with him would be bad. He dropped his spoon into the bowl and shoved his supper away. Bronn leaned across the table and dropped his voice so that no one else on the bench could hear him.

“Greyjoy’s claimed the queen’s baby. Your sister’s baby, I mean.”

“Yes, I assumed he would,” Jaime replied in an odd, flat voice. He waited to feel rage or murderous envy, but all was numb. “They had no choice. Besides, it’s probably true.”

Bronn chewed on a chunk of…something…from the stew. “Doesn’t seem to be bothering you much.”

“I find I’m not hungry. Help yourself to mine,” Jaime said instead of replying, pushing away from the table. He turned to leave the Great Hall but found his path blocked by Selwyn Tarth making his way down the aisle toward him. The Evenstar was a big man, taller than his daughter and with shoulders like a white bear. There would be no slipping past the man, and Jaime straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin in preparation for the encounter.

“Lord Selwyn,” he said when the big man had stopped in front of him.

“Ser Jaime.” Selwyn took him by the arm and steered him out of the Great Hall. They passed through a hallway and then into a smaller chamber. The room appeared to be some sort of work space. A large desk was tucked in among shelves of scrolls and books. It was dark and there were no candles, but Selwyn had flint with him and in just a moment he’d struck up a fire in the large fireplace. He stood beside his handiwork and warmed himself as he gazed at Jaime.

Jaime had traded armor for leather and fur when he’d arrived at Winterfell, but a few metal plates would have made him feel more secure. Selwyn’s eyes were blue, but they were not nearly as blue as his daughter’s. Still, they were just as direct as Brienne’s and they seemed to see right into the heart of him.

“Do you know why I came North when your sellsword friend asked it of me?”

Jaime shifted his weight. “Bronn was knighted after the Battle of the Blackwater.”

“Yet men still buy his loyalty. Sounds like a sellsword to me.”

“By that logic, all men are sellswords.”

Selwyn surprised him by laughing. He had a booming laugh and it filled the room. “True enough, Ser. True enough. But you didn’t answer my question. _Do_ you know why?”

“I…don’t, as a matter of fact. I was almost certain you wouldn’t come.”

“I came because of Brienne. Because she is here, ready to fight, of course. But also because of what she told me about you.” For a moment, Selwyn’s eyes flashed with the same sapphire beauty of his daughter’s. “She told me that you had honor, that everything the realm knew about you was a lie. She told me how you saved her from a bear, unarmed and one-handed, still weak from blood loss and fever. And she made me promise that if you ever asked a boon of me, I would grant it. So when your Bronn of Blackwater told me you called us North, and that my daughter would be waiting, I gave the order to evacuate.”

Jaime stood, struck silent by this revelation. He was not surprised that Selwyn Tarth was an honorable man: Brienne had to have learned it from somewhere. What surprised him was how highly Selwyn regarded her words and her opinion about him, the Kingslayer.

“She loves you, I think,” Selwyn continued. “I hope she was right about your honor. And I hope your honor compels you to protect her heart.”

Jaime opened his mouth, then paused. The yearning he’d felt, the need to be at Brienne’s side, was crystallizing inside of him and in the facets were hope and fear, frustrated affection and painful yearning.

Finally, he looked directly into Selwyn’s eyes and gave the only answer he could. “I would die for her, my lord.”

Selwyn stared at him for another long, silent moment. Then he nodded and turned to the door. “Enjoy the fire, Ser Jaime. And thank you for calling me to my daughter’s side before the darkness claims us all.”

——

**Brienne:**

When supper had been cleared away and the activity of the day began to quiet, Brienne set off to find Jaime. People crossed this way and that through the castle grounds, each intent on his or her own purpose, but they all gave Brienne a small nod as they passed. She returned these polite greetings but didn’t pause: it was well past time for her to speak with Jaime and she would not be waylaid now that she’d finally mustered the courage to do so.

She found him in the training yard with Bronn. Bronn was a good fighter; he was quick and ruthless, often using a knight’s formal training against his higher-born opponents. He was willing to take risks in order to achieve a fatal blow and was fast enough to get away with it most of the time. He was patient, content to conserve his energy, but when the time came, he struck with the fatal accuracy of a cobra.

Jaime was more methodical. His feet moved as though he were dancing, and he did his best to use sword and shield to minimize Bronn’s chances of landing an attack. The shield had been strapped directly to his handless arm and he had learned to employ it as a weapon as well as a defensive measure. If Bronn got close enough, he used the iron edge of it to bash at the other man. And his sword danced as well as his feet, curving and thrusting almost faster than Brienne could keep track of. If this was how he fought with his left, he must have been truly amazing with his right.

“You should get a hook for your right arm,” Bronn panted as they crossed swords and then backed away to circle one another. “Then you could catch and turn my blade.”

“I doubt I have time to learn any pretty new tricks,” Jaime replied, “but I’ll think about it.”

“You’re better. You’ll still be killed, mind, but you might last longer than the first few minutes.”

Jaime slashed at his friend. “I suppose I do owe you thanks for that.”

Bronn gave a bark of incredulous laughter. “You owe me a lot more than thanks.”

“Do you really want me to say it?” Jaime shot back with a roguish grin, and Bronn rolled his eyes.

“Excuse me,” Brienne said, cutting off their familiar banter. Both men dropped their swords and turned toward her. Then Bronn gave her a calculated smile that suggested she was the punchline of some private joke. She felt herself bristle, but his eyes cut to his sparring partner and she realized that his amusement was at Jaime’s expense, not hers.

“Now here’s someone you really owe, Lannister. I think I’ll leave the two of you alone, shall I?” Bronn dipped into an exaggerated bow and then disappeared out of the training yard and into the shadows of bailey, leaving Jaime and Brienne to stare at one another.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said at last, breaking the heavy silence.

“Yes,” Jaime replied, not bothering to lie. He was too busy tracing every contour of her face with hungry eyes.

“Why?” She crossed her arms over her chest, at once awkward and defensive. He made her feel uncomfortable in her skin, made her hyper-aware of herself in ways she never had been before. It a wasn’t hostile or embarrassing feeling, but it did make her blood seem to pump harder through her veins. Every one of her senses sharpened when Jaime was near.

He tried to shrug but he was so distracted by his assessment of her that it came off as half-hearted. “I didn’t know what to say to you. This is your place; it will never be mine. Yes,” he said, cutting her off before she could argue, “I came to fight for the living just like everyone else here, but I have no value to any of these people except my brother. And I’m not even entirely sure about that.”

“You _do_ have value,” she said. He smiled at the ferocity in her tone, but it faded from his lips quickly.

“You’ve found your place, Lady Brienne. I’m glad I’ve been able to see it first hand. But I don’t belong here.”

“You could if you wanted to,” she insisted.

“I know _you_ want me to,” he said. He tilted his head and gave her a fond smile, one she’d never seen before but which instantly pierced through her defenses. “I’m happy to be on your side of the battlefield for once.”

“Yes,” she agreed, and something in her chest relaxed and allowed her to breathe a little easier. “I am as well. I never wanted to fight you, Ser Jaime.”

She wasn’t aware of taking a step toward him, or of him walking toward her, but suddenly they were much closer to one another than they had been a moment before. The thick blanket of snow seemed to dull all the other sounds of the castle, wrapping them in torch-lit privacy.

“I wanted to go with you, you know. Every time we parted, I wanted to chase after you,” he told her. His voice was soft and velvety and she wanted to close her eyes and savor the sound. She’d almost forgotten his voice in all the time they’d spent apart and hearing it now, she knew her memories hadn’t done it justice.

“I know, I think…I mean, I think I sensed it,” she said. She added, a little breathlessly, “You would have been welcome.”

“Would I have been?” His eyes roamed her face, then dropped to her lips for a beat. A ravenous look flashed through his gaze before he lifted it to hers, and she felt herself shiver with something other than cold. They had leaned in even closer, though their feet had stayed planted, and it occurred to her that their noses were almost touching at exactly the moment he drew away.

“It might have all been different if I had. Better. _We_ might have been different, but I missed my chance.”

“Missed your chance—?” Brienne asked, confused. Jaime sighed and looked away from her at last. His eyes searched the shadows of the courtyard, traced over the stone shed and the high walls.

“Cersei is pregnant,” he said at last. “And there’s a chance it’s mine.”

Any warmth Brienne had left fled from her. Her fingers were icicles, her body a glacier. Pain ripped through her chest so sharply that it took all her self-control not to gasp out loud. It shouldn’t have hurt so much because she’d always known that he would go back to Cersei, yet suspecting it and hearing confirmation of it proved to be different things.

Jaime looked even worse than she felt. His eyes were endless caves of misery and his body was taut with shame and remorse. He watched her suffering for a moment, then he flinched and looked down at his boots, unable to bear it any longer.

Why did it feel like a betrayal? Why did it feel like he’d dropped her heart into the very snow they were standing in?

“I see,” she said. Such small words. They sounded stupid, but they were all her numb mind could come up with.

“I wish it were different. I wish _I_ were different, Brienne.” He sighed, his eyes still on his boots. “I failed you.”

“This is why you’ve been avoiding me?” she asked. He nodded.

“But you left her? Truly?”

He nodded again.

Brienne sucked in a breath and squared herself before she asked her next question.

“Do you still love her?”

Jaime’s eyes lifted to hers at last. Something flamed up in his gaze and burned across the distance between them. He stared at her as if he could will her into believing his answer if he only tried hard enough.

“No,” he said. “I grieve for the woman I loved, but sometimes I think she never really existed. The Cersei that _does_ exist, the one I left in King’s Landing…no, I don’t love her.”

Brienne’s next breath tasted like relief.

“I believe you,” she told him. It was as though, with those words, she had cut him free of some sort of invisible bonds. Every muscle in him seemed to uncoil; even his hand flexed against his leg as the tension drained out of him. His breath misted the night air and partially obscured his eyes, but she could tell that some of the darkness had been chased out of them.

She looked away, fought down the compulsion to take the final steps toward him and offer what meager comfort she could. She had never been able to hide her soft woman’s heart from his gaze, but she didn’t want him to see how it bled now. Had she expected him to come to her and say that he’d abandoned his sister and the Crown for _her_? That he had traveled all the long miles on the Kingsroad with the thought of her spurring him on?

Ridiculous. Those were the sort of summer dreams she ought to have left behind years ago. The sort she thought she _had_ left behind. She was appalled to find that tears—humiliated, furious tears—had filled her eyes. Before she could swipe the offending wetness away, one dropped down the cheek she’d turned on Jaime.

——

**Jaime:**

Jaime’s protective instincts had run deep for as long as he could remember. From his earliest days, he sought the power to protect his loved ones, his family, from anyone that might do them harm. Later, as his skills grew and men began to talk of his unique prowess, arrogance would cloud the purity of this desire, but it had never gone away. Then, when the realm had labeled him Kingslayer, he had turned his protective instinct into something ruthless in service of his family and their ambitions.

Now—faced with Brienne’s tears—that protectiveness rose in him once more in its purest form. The compulsion to move closer to her was too fundamental to ignore, and almost as if he couldn’t stop it if he’d tried, his hand came to her cheek and brushed her tear away. She jolted at the contact, but she didn’t pull away. In that moment he wished he wasn’t wearing a glove, wished he was touching her skin without any barriers.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice slightly broken with how earnestly he meant his words. “For what little it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Brienne’s exhaled hard through her nose. Her eyes were soaked in misery, and another tear fell faster than he could wipe it away.

“I don’t know why I’m crying. I knew you loved her and I…and I have no claim over you.” The last words sounded choked, as if it cost her everything to say them to him. Her cheeks were flaming with strong emotion, and if Jaime had possessed both hands, he would have cradled her face and forced her to look at him.

“Don’t you?” he asked softly. Finally, Brienne turned her face toward his. He could see the confusion he was causing her and wished he knew how to make things clear for her…but they weren’t clear for him either. He’d spent most of his life believing he’d been in love with one woman, yet standing here in this snowy training yard he suddenly understood that his heart had belonged to someone else for a long time. For years, he realized. Brienne had captured it even before the bear pit, back when he’d still been half-convinced he wanted to kill her himself.

“How could I? We’ve never even been on the same side, in all the years we’ve known each other. Much as I…much as I have come to respect and honor you, I…I always knew who you fought for and why. And I’m…look at me, Jaime!” She gestured at herself, armored and glorious, in helpless frustration. “I’m hardly the sort of woman a man loses his heart to.”

Warmth detonated in his chest, pushed through his veins by a heart that was suddenly pumping much harder than it had been a moment before. It was hope, he thought, hope that he hadn’t destroyed whatever tenuous connection they’d nurtured through the years. Hope that was born from her use of one word.

“You called me Jaime,” he said, moving his fingers from her cheek to her chin. It trembled in his gentle grip.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Brienne,” he whispered back, and then he kissed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Jaime and Brienne, as well as the rest of Winterfell, prepares to face the Night King.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out there's going to be one more chapter of this!! This one was a bit of a bear, and I think chapter 5 will be too, but I'm excited about the end of this. Thank you for all of your kdos and kind words, you make all the struggles to write worth it!!

**Brienne:**

The moment Jaime’s lips touched hers, the world disappeared for Brienne. Even the Night King faded from her mind as Jaime’s fingers tightened on her jaw and his other arm wrapped around her waist and tugged her flush against him. A sense of belonging and well-being flooded through her. The sweetness of it pierced through her and left her wide open to him but that didn’t scare her: she’d trusted him for so long, what was there to fear?

But the sweetness changed as his tongue swept over her lips. It morphed into something scorching and irresistible, full of all the yearning she’d felt for him since the moment he’d jumped into the bear pit for her. The power of it shook her and left her clinging to his shoulders as her mouth moved beneath his.

_Please,_ she thought, _don’t let this end, don’t let it be another dream…_

It felt as though her path, as though all of the choices she’d made in her life, had been leading to this moment. It was another ridiculous notion more appropriate for a summer girl than a winter-hardened warrior, but for once she was tired of rationalizing away her desires. His hand left her chin so he could cup the back of her head and deepen their kiss, and she gave into it. She would be selfish, just for a little while.

He broke away from her, breathing hard and staring into her eyes as if he’d been struck with lightning, or as if some great mystery in his life had suddenly been solved. She was certain her expression mirrored his exactly.

“I came for you. I know that sounds…” he shook his head as he searched for the words, “I know it sounds like a lie after what I told you about Cersei, but I came here _for you_ and nothing else.”

Brienne shook her head, trying to clear it. Her blood was singing through her and she was gripping his shoulders, her fingers curled deep into the fur lining. “But you don’t lo—”

“I do,” he said, giving her a gentle shake. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Of course I do.”

_Of course,_ he said, like it should be obvious to her. But things between them had never been obvious, never been simple. She’d wanted him for longer than she cared to admit, and when she finally had acknowledged that desire, it was only so she could remind herself with vicious honesty that men like Jaime didn’t want women like her. Not when there were women like Cersei, Margaery and Sansa in the world.

She wanted to believe him. She was afraid to believe him.

“You can’t love two people at once any more than you can serve two masters, or—or honor two opposing oaths,” she said in a throaty voice. The words hurt her on their way out, and they hurt _him_ too: he stared at her as if she’d run him through with her sword. She went on, more gently: “You’ll always love her, Jaime. It’s who you are.”

He shook his head. “It was never who I was. It was who I tried to be, gods know I tried, but…” He grasped her shoulder with his good hand. “It’s _you._ You reminded me who I am, who I always wanted to be. I thought I’d lost the best part of me when they took my sword hand, but that wasn’t it. You took the best part of me with you every time you left. _That_ is why it was always so hard to let you go.” He stared hard into her eyes to make sure she saw the truth of his words, to make sure she understood. “I’ll stay away from you if you want me to, Brienne—I swear I will—but I won’t pretend I’m not in love with you.”

The words stabbed through her and echoed inside, filling her head and chest. Around them, the night remained still and silent. As that silence stretched, resignation crept into Jaime’s expression. His hand left her shoulder. He shifted away from her; a graceless shuffling movement that was unlike him. He seemed to have stiffened and drawn into himself. In the new space between them, the night’s winter air plunged back in and Brienne found herself shivering.

He got two or three steps away when she moved. Her hands shot out and capture his arm. She said “Wait!” in a voice so strangled she barely recognized it.

“I don’t know what to say,” she continued when he’d turned back to her. “I’ve loved you for so long, but I never thought—” She swallowed, searching through the murk of her emotions for words that might help him understand. “It’s been years,” she said hopelessly. “We’ve known each other for years, and you kept going back to her. Now…now you say you’re in love with me, but I can’t help but wonder, if there was more time—if the Night King is defeated—would you go back to her?”

Jaime’s hand came up to his face, and he rubbed his forehead hard before he dragged his fingers back through his hair. “The are only two proofs I can offer you. One is time, and we’re running out of that. The second is an oath.”

Brienne’s lips parted, but he continued before she could speak.

“So I will swear to you, now and again in front of witnesses if you prefer, that you are the woman I truly love. You have my heart. And I will give you the spring if it costs me my life,” he told her. “You can have as much or as little of me as you want, Brienne. I’m yours in either case.”

Brienne took a deep breath, watching him as the power of his words sank into her skin. They filled her with that same sense of well-being that his kiss had. She knew, perhaps she _alone_ knew, what Jaime’s oaths meant to him. She gripped Oathkeeper with a hand that shook slightly.

“And I swear to you, Jaime, that I love you and I am yours.”

He reached out to her, tugging her toward him by the hand that gripped Oathkeeper. When she was close enough, he wrapped both arms around her and buried his face in her neck. As Brienne’s own arms came up to complete the embrace, she felt him take a shuddering breath and realized, with a sweet ache, that there were tears on his face. She sheltered him in the yard, vowing again—this time to herself—that his heart would be safe with her.

**\---  
**

**Jaime:**

Jaime woke the next morning in his chamber and wondered, just as he had for a long time before sleep had claimed him the night before, if he had done the right thing. He hadn’t meant to tell Brienne the depth of his feelings for her. He’d wanted to spare her any extra pain on the inevitable occasion of his death; even if he survived the Night King and his army, the Starks were waiting with their cold Northern justice. Nor could he offer her marriage. His name would do her no favors in Westeros no matter who claimed the Iron Throne. If Cersei prevailed, it would be as good as a target on her back. If it was the Dragon Queen or one of the Starks, wedding him would be impolitic at best. And again there was that pesky matter of making her a widow almost as soon as making her a wife.

All he had was his original plan, which was to fight like a demon out of the seven hells in order to make sure she survived the Long Night. He couldn’t tell her about this plan. As soon as she understood what he expected it to cost him, she would do something foolish to try and save him. That was something he could not bear.

With an embarrassing creak of tired joints, he levered himself out of his fur-covered bed. And despite his grim thoughts, a smile curled his lips. At least he would carry the gift of her love with him to the end. The light of it would guide him through the darkest days ahead, would give him strength when the end came. There was glory in that; maybe it was not the kind that one could write about on a page in the White book, but it was mayhaps the only kind of glory that truly mattered in the end.

He washed as best he could in the freezing basin of water in the corner of the room before dressing and making his way to the Great Hall to break his fast. He had just grabbed his bowl of gritty oatmeal, made slightly more palatable by the goat’s milk from Tarth’s animals, when Tyrion walked up to him and touched his elbow.

“You’ll need to eat on the move, brother. The queen has need of you.”

Bitter words jumped to Jaime’s lips, but he looked at his brother and wrestled them back down into his gullet. He gave a nod, not trusting himself to speak. Tyrion led him away from the benches and into a small solar behind the Great Hall. Crammed inside were Jon and Daenerys, along with Missandei, Grey Worm, Davos Seaworth, and Tormund Giantsbane. Stiffly, Jaime bowed in the direction of the monarchs. He was sure he looked as wary as he felt. He started to ask what he had been summoned for, but Sansa and Arya Stark joined them before he could, with Brienne at their heels. Their eyes met over the Stark girls’ heads and both softened slightly, though Jaime didn’t want to give too much of himself and his feelings away in front of such a potentially hostile crowd.

“Brienne and Tyrion have both been describing your military prowess to us,” Daenerys said. “Though I have my doubts, after you attempted to ride down a dragon.”

There was the sound of several shifting feet as everyone looked to Jaime to see how he’d answer. He allowed a smirk to touch his lips, as arrogant as it would have been in the old days.

“Oh, I’m not quite that foolish. It was _you_ I attempted to skewer, not your overgrown lizard-lion.”

Jon’s face twisted with anger but Daenerys placed a placating hand on his arm. She favored Jaime with a wan smile, though her eyes promised a comeuppance at some future date. Brienne was openly gaping at him, and she gave him an impatient glare when their eyes caught that had him fighting down a grin.

“My mistake,” Daenerys said, drawing his attention back to her. Her tone implied the mistake was, in fact, his. He wanted to laugh: his life had been a series of mistakes, and this one was the least of them. He managed not to, though Tyrion glared at him as though he knew exactly what his brother had been thinking. Jaime made a small gesture as if to say, _peace, brother, I will be meek as a lamb._

Tyrion did not look convinced.

“We have called you hear to ask your advice, so we may judge your military acumen ourselves,” the queen continued. “We have one question for you: what should we do if we lose Winterfell?”

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “Take the Neck. We’re facing a tireless army that outnumbers is by the tens of thousands. We need to use the land to its best effect. Make them funnel into a bottleneck. Set what land you can ablaze. Force them to reach us by climbing over the bodies of the fallen. It’s the only way you can use your dragons to maximum effect.”

“You expect me to stray so close to Cersei’s borders?” Daenerys asked, leaning toward him over the table.

Jaime met her gaze without flinching. “If we lose Winterfell, we lose the North. If we lose the North, the Neck is the only place in Westeros where we stand a chance of making an effective last stand.”

“The Neck was fortified to protect us from Southron invaders, not ones that come from the North,” Jon cut in.

“Even better,” Jaime replied, “as my sweet sister will undoubtably see our retreat as an act of aggression. We will need those South-facing ramparts as much as we need the narrow terrain. We are fighting a war on two fronts. Victory will take a miracle. Mayhaps Cersei’s armies will join us at the Neck if they see for themselves what we’re facing.” He shook his head, doubting it even as he said the words. “That could be our only hope of victory.”

“That is an extremely slim hope,” Sansa pointed out.

“Slim hopes are all we have left,” Jon said to her. Daenerys was gazing at Jaime thoughtfully.

“Us,” she said. “Our.”

The room fell silent again as everyone looked to her.

“Those were your words,” she continued, staring at Jaime with unreadable eyes. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Brienne, then Tyrion, then to Brienne again. Warily, he said, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Mayhaps we have been too mistrusting,” she said. Her head tilted as she regarded him. Then she looked to Brienne. “You speak highly of him. You tried to pledge yourself surety for his good behavior.”

Brienne shifted, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin in spite of the red creeping up her neck to flood her cheeks. She refused to meet Jaime’s furious glare as she said, “He is an honorable man, Your Grace, and his advice is sound.”

“It would seem I had your motivations all wrong, Ser Jaime.” Daenerys’ gaze was penetrating, but he thought he could see a glimmer of amusement in her eyes now. “I see now what truly brought you to our side. You shall have overall command of our armies. In addition, we shall plan a retreat to the Neck if it proves absolutely necessary. Lady Brienne, you shall be Ser Jaime’s lieutenant commander. Tormund Giantsbane shall lead the vanguard, Grey Worm will command our foot, to include the Unsullied. Ser Jorah will lead the cavalry as he speaks and fights in the Dothraki fashion. The Warden of the North and I will be fighting on dragonback.”

Jaime heard the commands from a distance, the shock of his sudden elevation numbing his thoughts. Overall command of the army of the living? Last night he’d gone to sleep as barely more than a prisoner, and now it would be his hand that would draw the battle lines in humanity’s most important struggle. And Brienne would be at his side, giving him the opportunity to help her stay alive through the darkness.

“If that is all, my lords and ladies, I suggest we return to our normal duties. I know some of you had watches late into the night and I would give you time to rest,” Daenerys said, dismissing them all. “Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne, we shall discuss the defense of Winterfell in an hour’s time. Pray return once you’ve broken your fast.”

Jaime must have nodded and bowed out of the room, but he did not remember doing so. His mind was buzzing and even as he returned to the Great Hall, he was running over the stronghold’s defensive capabilities and planning a fresh examination of all the fortifications. He was so absorbed in this that Brienne’s hand landing on his arm caused him to jolt with surprise. She looked anguished and furious all at once.

“You _rode down_ a _dragon?_ ”

\--- 

**Brienne:**

Jaime seemed to shake himself out of deep thoughts when Brienne grabbed him. He paused, no doubt trying to come up with a droll explanation for what sounded to her like unadulterated recklessness.

“Yes,” he said at last. “She’d just melted half my army in their armor right where they stood. We didn’t stand a chance against that beast, so I tried to end it. Bronn had more sense than I did; he knocked me into the river before we were both incinerated in turn.”

_Burn them all,_ Brienne remembered. She felt vaguely sick to her stomach as she thought of all those doomed men. She hoped it was a quick death. Then she shook her head at him: the one man foolish enough to ride down Daenerys Targaryen when she was with her child.

“Sometimes I forget how _stupid_ you can be,” she said at last, the words bursting out of her as she pictured him tilting at a _dragon_ in her mind’s eye.

“The Warrior favors the bold, isn’t that what the septons tell us?”

“No one favors idiots,” she snapped, but he was giving her that fond grin again and she felt her annoyance with him ebbing away. As soon as he saw her softening, it was his turn to glare at her.

“You’re no better, my lady. You tried to pledge yourself as surety for my honorable conduct?” he demanded. Brienne wished she could stop the heat that rushed up her neck, but she didn’t flinch as they stared at each other.

“I did. Lady Sansa added her assurances to mine. In the end, Queen Daenerys and Lord Snow decided such a pledge would not be necessary.” She paused, and then added, “What do you think changed the Queen’s mind about giving you command?”

Jaime tilted his head as though he was surprised she hadn’t worked out the answer on her own yet, but he seemed to read the genuine confusion on her face. A slow smile curled his lips. “ _You,_ Brienne.”

“I…don’t understand,” she replied, her brow furrowing.

“He means,” Tyrion said as he walked up to them from the direction of the solar they’d all just left, “that the fact that he is utterly besotted and devoted to you is written all over his face every time you’re in the same room. The only way it could be more obvious is if he shouted it from the ramparts. My Queen spotted it and understood that though he has no love for her or the Starks, he would never betray _you._ ”

“Oh, she spotted that on her own, did she?” Jaime asked lightly, one eyebrow arched. Tyrion made a dismissive gesture.

“I may have helped her reach that particular conclusion. I hope it was the _correct_ conclusion?”

Jaime only nodded. Brienne had been looking back and forth between the brothers, intrigued by their particular rapport. Then she realized that Jaime had just, without a shadow of hesitation or embarrassment, admitted his love for Brienne to his brother— _in public_ —and her eyes snapped to his face.

“I came to congratulate you on your promotion, but there is more news you should know. It may become pertinent if we survive what’s to come. If you’ll walk with me?” he asked. Brienne and Jaime exchanged a look and then walked out of the Great Hall.

— 

Tyrion’s explanation of Jon Snow’s true heritage sat ill with Brienne long after they had discussed it in the godswood. It had been hard to focus during the strategy meeting afterward, and she found herself trailing after Jaime as they inspected the battlements, lost in thought. The war against the dead she understood, but the continuous struggle for the Iron Throne was a lodestone she doubted Westeros could bear much longer.

Jaime touched her arm. “This doesn’t change anything, Brienne.”

“If Lady Sansa is proclaimed to be the true Queen in the North, I am honor-bound to—”

“The person in the most danger would be Jon Snow, not Lady Sansa. I don’t envy the man caught between her and Daenerys Targaryen. But those are considerations for _after_ the Long Night. No one will break this triumvirate until the dead are defeated, and by then some accord between the three may have been reached.” He gave her a wry smile. “There is no point in fighting wars that haven’t begun yet, Brienne.”

She sighed but nodded. He was right; until Jon Snow’s parentage was public knowledge, all she could do was speculate, and speculation took her mind off of what was truly important: Winterfell’s defenses against the Night King.

Jaime was patient, taking the time to explain his decisions as they walked the parapets and ramparts. She began to visualize his deployment of their forces: where to place the archers, how best to protect their flanks and where to deploy their cavalry for optimal, devastating effect. The battle in her mind’s eye was taking clear shape, with the Dothraki and Wildlings breaking through to make opportunities for the more disciplined Westerosi and Unsullied to capitalize on, while the archers rained death and the dragons danced over it all.

“It will all become chaos,” Jaime told her. “Battles always do. But we can try to shape that chaos to our advantage. Much will depend on the dragons, on whether ours can chase the Night King’s out of the sky. I mislike our field: the Wolfswood will complicate matters for our archers, and our Dothraki screamers will want to stick to open ground. We don’t want our men in the trees when the dragons are on the field, lest dragonfire turn the woods into an inferno, but we may not be able to avoid it.”

Brienne nodded as she looked out over the forest. “Perhaps the dragons can burn the wood back before the fighting begins.”

“I’ll speak with the queen,” Jaime agreed. He stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders were brushing. He glanced sideways at her and then back out at the wilderness. “I would have one last oath from you, Brienne.”

Fear gripped her heart. She had a feeling she knew what he was about to ask of her and she didn’t want to make that promise. It was an oath she didn’t think she could keep, and the thought of breaking a promise made to him was wrenching to the point of agony.

“You must do your best to survive, even if it means you cannot save anyone else,” he said, turning to her fully. “I have to know that you won’t sacrifice yourself, especially not for me.”

“Jaime—”

“You _must_ survive until spring,” he said, and there was such desperation in his voice that her heart wrenched again. Still, she couldn’t answer through the lump in her throat.

“I swear I shall not place myself in unnecessary danger,” she said at last. Jaime gave her a look of defeated annoyance.

“Your definition of unnecessary and mine are very different, wench,” he replied. She lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug, aching with disappointment because she couldn’t give him the oath he wanted. He heaved a sigh and lifted his hand to cup her face. “I know it’s the best you can do.”

She hesitated, then leaned into his touch. “We must both survive, Jaime,” she whispered, and he drew her closer. She dropped her head a bit, unable to meet his gaze and see how much he doubted they could, but then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then he gave her a gentle tug and led her back into the warmth of the castle.

\---

Brienne would remember the next few days as a rare gift from the gods, a time to prepare of course, but also a time for everyone in the castle to truly appreciate one another, and to share friendship and love more deeply than ever because there was a very real sense of time running out. There was a warmth and clarity in those last hours that Brienne carried with her all the rest of her life.

And then, at last, the dead arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Battles and their aftermath.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle against the Night King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this was going to be the last chapter...but it turns out I need one more to finish this up!! Someone save me from myself.
> 
> I'M REALLY SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. I knew exactly how I wanted this chapter to go, but when it came time to actually put it into some sort of coherent prose, I just couldn't manage it. I'm still not especially happy with the outcome, but I desperately want to finish this before we see too much of season 8.
> 
> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU, you guys are amazing and I'm so lucky to be in this fandom with you!!

Night had raged around Winterfell for months. The ranks of the living fighters hadn’t thinned as much as Brienne feared they might have at this point, but the castle and its defenders were so snowed in that any dream of making it to the Neck had been abandoned weeks ago. All of their attempts to keep the roads clear had been in vain, and they’d needed all their able-bodied men to fight. Just yesterday she and Jaime had broken the news that there was to be no retreat south. And today there had been other news, news that should have lightened the hearts of them all but instead had filled the castle with a quiet dread.

Queen Daenerys was pregnant.

All of her advisors had urged her to flee Winterfell, but Brienne could have told them they were only wasting their breath. Not only would Daenerys never dream of abandoning the Great War, they all knew that neither dragon would fight without their mother. Though Jon had an undeniable connection to Rhaegal, he had told the council he doubted he could control the dragon if Daenerys were to flee for the safety of their child.

Brienne was privately grateful. The dragons were keeping them all from extinction; without them, the Seven Kingdoms were doomed.

Yet Daenerys was putting her unborn child in great danger by remaining in Winterfell and that grim knowledge suppressed everyone’s spirits further.

Jaime joined Brienne on the battlements. He was wrapped deep in his furs and his golden skin was pale from exhaustion. The lines near his eyes were more pronounced than ever, and the only time his countenance seemed to lighten was when he was able to steal these moments with her.

“You should take Bran Stark and Lady Sansa south while you can,” Jaime said. It was an argument they’d been having off and on for the last month.

“The snows are too deep, you know that. This is where I belong. My father is here. _You_ are here. And if Winterfell falls, we both know Westeros is doomed.”

“But from White Harbor—”

“No, Jaime,” she told him, but she softened the cutting finality of those words by covering his hand with her own. He was still and silent for a long time, but he nodded at last, resigned. She knew he’d never really expected her to run.

“We can’t last much longer,” he said, his voice soft. “The dragons are eating more and more. There are too few fighters left. Another few weeks and the undead will be able to swamp over us without any trouble at all.”

Brienne felt as though icy fingers were squeezing her heart. “I know.”

He looked at her with eyes full of anguish. “I promised you the spring.”

She squeezed his hand. “We’re not dead yet, Jaime,” she reminded him.

“No,” he agreed, though his smile was hollow, “not yet.” Then he took her to their bedchamber to prove it.

\- - -

Jaime hauled himself back into the keep after his next turn on the fields of battle. Hope was slipping through his fingers rapidly. The fighting was not going well. Fire had been everywhere, but the melting snows refrozen whenever a Walker was near, making the footing treacherous. They all targeted the Walkers, knowing that if they could cut them down, all their wights would fall as well. The trouble was, there were often oceans of the undead between the fighters and their targets, and many men fell trying to carve a path through.

And there was the matter of the Night King’s dragon as well. So far, Jon and Daenerys has been able to fight him off, to keep the undead Viserion from wreaking too much havoc on the living defenders, but in a matter of weeks Daenerys would be too pregnant to mount Drogon and fly into battle, and there was some debate as to whether or not her great black beast would fight without her on his back.

They were failing, and even if the realm’s remaining armies finally decided to march to their aid, they’d never make to Winterfell through the snow. It had been coming down for weeks and the drifts were taller even than the undead mammoths that the Night King had reanimated for his army.

He was lost in his thoughts, in desperate last minute plans to destroy the Night King and hope that destroyed his Walkers as well, when Tyrion called to him.

“The Queen requests your presence in her solar,” he told Jaime. He looked as keenly aware of their approaching doom as Jaime felt. “We’ve all gathered there. Bran Stark has something to tell us.”

Jaime nodded and followed his brother through the bailey and Great Hall and into the small, crowded room the Queen used for more private conversations. Bran Stark was there, looking as detached and serene as ever, as were his sisters and Jon. Missandei was near the queen’s side, but Jorah, Grey Worm and Brienne were out fighting. Tormund loomed beside Jon but for once he was quiet, too tired from his own battling to keep up his chatter.

As soon as Jaime and Tyrion entered the room, Daenerys gestured for Bran to speak. He looked at each member of the assembly in turn with those odd, detached eyes. His expression was so placid that it unnerved them all, and the room filled with the sound of people shuffling uncomfortably away from his empty gaze.

“The time has come for us to make our final stand,” he said at last.

Daenerys looked to Jaime and Tyrion. They both nodded. “We won’t survive much longer if we don’t do something drastic,” Jaime told her.

“I now know what I must do,” Bran continued. “It will take time. We must last long enough to fulfill my purpose, or all is lost. I will need protection. Once I begin, the Night King will come for me.”

“Can we spare some men?” Daenerys asked the room.

“Perhaps Lady Brienne,” Tyrion suggested. “She would protect Lord Stark with her dying breath.”

_That’s the problem,_ Jaime thought. “No,” he said aloud, “I’ll protect him. Pod, Bronn and I, along with seventeen other men. Lady Brienne will lead the rest of the army.”

There was no way he would put her directly in the Night King’s path. She would be angry—justifiably so—when she found out he’d taken her place, but he had promised to do whatever he could to ensure her survival. Of all the oaths he’d sworn in his life, this was the one he was most determined to keep.

Daenerys nodded. “Very well. Select your men, Ser Jaime. The rest of you, prepare for a final assault. Lord Stark, how long do you need to prepare?”

Bran turned his gaze to her. “I have long been prepared. We may begin whenever you wish. But we should move quickly; I will need all my strength.”

“You have four hours,” Daenerys said to the room. “Use them wisely.”

“Meet me in the godswood,” Bran told Jaime. “I will be near the heart tree.”

\- - -

Jaime hadn’t purposefully avoided Bran’s presence since arriving in Winterfell, but the fact that their paths hadn’t crossed much had been something of a relief during the past few months. Just days after his arrival, he’d gone to the Stark boy to offer what meager apology he could, but Bran had been so eerily serene that he had retreated as soon as possible. Since then, they had only seen one another during the occasional war meetings.

Eerie serenity seemed to be Bran’s sole personality trait these days, and though he had told Jaime that what he had done had been absolutely necessary for them both, Jaime still felt profoundly unclean every time he saw the young man in his wheeled chair. He wasn’t looking forward to whatever was waiting for them in the godswood, but at least there was time for a pair of goodbyes.

When Tyrion finally exited the solar they’d all met in, Jaime snagged his arm. His younger brother looked up at him, and the grim determination on his face faded into something else, something that made him look much younger and vulnerable, just a boy who needed his big brother more than anyone else in the world.

Something cracked in the marrow of Jaime’s bones. They’d been apart for years, neither able to keep from hurting the other, but the thread between them remained somehow and it drew them tightly together once more.

“Come,” Tyrion said, and Jaime followed him through the castle and up into a tower bedchamber. It was as grey and cheerless as the rest of the castle, but it was warmed through by a large fire. Tyrion pulled himself into a chair near it and gestured for Jaime to take the other.

“It appears that this is it,” he said as Jaime shoved his cloak aside and sat. “The end of the Great War.”

“Yes,” Jaime agreed. He hesitated, then glanced up at his brother and said, “I don’t expect to survive what comes next.”

Tyrion’s lip twisted. “I’m not sure any of us do.”

“You heard Lord Stark. The Night King will come right for us on the back of that bloody dragon. And before I go and wait for him, I wanted to say—” He stopped, choking on words that seemed small and stupid next to his regrets—and the love he bore his brother.

Tyrion looked at him, his own throat tight with emotion. Then he stared into the flames. “I know,” he said. “Jaime, I know. _Me too.”_

The silence stretched as they both tried to accept the likelihood that they would never see each other again. Jaime’s cheeks were wet but he wasn’t ashamed of the tears. They’d been waiting to pour out of him for years, and from Tyrion’s rapid blinking he knew he wasn’t the only one overcome.

“I like her, you know. Your new love,” Tyrion said at last. Jaime finally looked at him again. His brother smiled. “Brienne of Tarth. I like her father too. She would have been an excellent good-sister.”

“Yes, well…” Jaime cleared his throat and somehow managed a smirk of his own, “she likes you, too.”

“I can’t imagine you in a healthy relationship.” Tyrion tilted his head a little as he considered it.

“Nor I,” Jaime admitted. “Take care of her for me, when this is over.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Tyrion replied, and it sounded like a vow, like he understood that he would be taking care of Brienne in honor of Jaime’s memory. Jaime’s eyes burned again but he forced the tears back.

“I love you,” he said simply. Tyrion looked down at his hands, clenched into fists on his thighs as he sought to control his emotions. Then he looked up at Jaime.

“I love you too,” he replied, and accepted Jaime’s final embrace.

\- - - 

Finding Brienne was much harder. The fighting had lulled, though he could still make out the shambling wights off in the distant darkness. The soldiers were dragging themselves back toward Winterfell, leaving the field between as a churned mass of melted snow, mud and blood. Jaime pushed his way through the fighters until he spotted her, tall and glorious despite her battered, filthy armor. He hurried forward and grasped her arm.

“Brienne,” he said, and something in his tone of voice must have warned her of what was to come, because after one quick look to make sure all was quiet, she walked with him away from the others. Soon they were alone, standing just inside the Wolfswood. The castle and its defenders were a shout away, but they were isolated enough to have a private conversation if they were quiet. He wished it could be somewhere else— _anywhere_ else—but his time was short and she couldn’t go too far from her army when the next assault might happen at any moment.

“Something’s happened,” she said as soon as they came to a halt. She dragged her helm off, and her hair was a sweaty riot. Beneath that tangled mass, her eyes blazed at him like the heart of a flame, so fierce and blue that he felt her looks alone could keep him warm through this endless night.

“Yes,” he said. “Bran Stark told us just now: it’s time for our last stand.”

Brienne sucked in a breath, struck with a wild terror. Then, just as he’d seen her do a hundred times before, she forced that terror down and replaced it with an unrelenting resolve. “Very well. What would you have me do?”

She was asking as a subordinate looking to her commander for orders, but he shook his head and gave her an agonized smile.

“You’re in command, Brienne. The army is yours. I have…I have to stay with Bran Stark,” he told her.

She looked so stricken that it ripped at his heart. “You said we’d fight side by side.”

“I know,” he replied, sounding hoarse as he forced the words through a tight throat, “but I also promised you that you’d live through this, and staying with Bran Stark is my best chance of keeping that promise.”

She looked at him—looked _into_ him—and then swallowed and glanced away. “I understand,” she said, though her voice cracked a little.

He took her hand. “I’m sorry it took me so long to…to realize who I was, to love you the way I should have from the beginning.”

Her eyes found his again, shimmering with love and despair in equal parts. She knew he was saying goodbye to her one last time, and it was breaking her just as much as it was breaking him. He pulled her into his arms and buried his face in the crook of her shoulder.

“Brienne,” he whispered against her skin.

“Jaime,” she replied, murmuring it into his hair and she pressed her cheek against his head. “I love you.”

He kissed her, poured himself into it, and as his lips moved over hers he prayed to all the gods that she would see the sun rise again. Then he cupped her cheek, committed the exact shade of her blue eyes into his memory, and walked away before his strength failed him.

\- - -

Bran looked up at him as he walked toward the heart tree, feeling raw and empty. The boy’s other defenders were already there, and Bronn gave him a long, hard look as he joined them. Podrick fidgeted beside them, his jaw clenched and his hands trembling. Jaime spotted a wicked looking dagger in the squire’s hand and felt a small shock as he realized the blade was made of Vylarian steel and the hilt of dragon bone…where had he gotten such a thing? But before he could ask, Bran spoke up.

“I am going to go into a trance and do my best to fight the Night King as directly as I am able to,” Bran said. “But he will be able to sense what I am doing immediately, and he will come here to try and stop me.”

Jaime felt a collective shudder run through the men standing in the godswood. He gripped the hilt of his sword a little tighter, trying not to give into mindless dread. If the Night King came here, they would deal with him. Bran looked at each of the men in turn. “I will try to stop him before he reaches us, but you must be prepared if I cannot.”

And, without any further preamble, he tilted his head back, and his eyes went white.

At first it didn’t seem as though anything was happening. The men watched as Jon Snow and Rhaegal took flight, soaring over the battlements and toward the field. They could hear the sounds of a fierce battle, but the walls were high and they couldn’t see anything except the glow of dragonfire.

Then Jaime noticed that something was happening to Bran; the white mist that had obscured his eyes was turning an unearthly blue, and his clothes began crusting with frost that crawled up from his boots, thickening as it went. Within a couple of breaths, the frost was becoming ice, covering Bran as his face contorted with some unspeakable effort. He never made a sound, but Jaime was willing to bet that if he could scream, he would be wailing in agony, and goosebumps erupted all over his body at the sight of the boy in such a state.

Suddenly there _was_ wailing; an otherworldly shriek that came from above, and Jaime’s head shot up as he looked for the source of the sound. Out over the battlefield, Viserion was twisting in the sky in undeniable pain. Blue bursts erupted from his gaping maw, and it was clear that the Night King had lost control of him. The dragon twisted his long neck and snapped at his rider, and in that moment Jaime understood: Bran was attempting to warg into the undead dragon, to turn it against his rider long enough for Jon, Dany, Rhaegal and Drogon to finish him off.

“Please,” he whispered, unaware he was speaking out loud, “in the name of all the gods, _please!”_

Viserion continued to twist and contract, somehow staying in the air despite his obvious distress. Next to the heart tree, Bran remained completely silent. He was almost entirely engulfed in ice, but Jaime dared not interrupt the trance. Jon and Rhaegal flew in for an attack, and the dragons snapped at each other, screaming their rage loud enough that Jaime felt it in the ground beneath his feet. For a moment, it seemed as though Rhaegal might prevail, but then there was a smaller motion, a spear flying through the sky between the beasts, and suddenly the living dragon was wheeling away. Jon Snow fell through the air, dropping from Rhaegal’s back like a stone. They didn’t see him land, but Jaime thought he’d probably been dead before he’d slipped off of the dragon’s back.

“No,” he growled, feeling utterly useless as he stood behind Winterfell’s thick stone walls. He shouldn’t be here, he should be _out there_ , with Brienne, trying to make the most of the confusion in the sky to beat back the undead on the ground…Bronn grabbed his arm and shook his head, pointing at Bran. The boy was shaking now, hard, as though he was having a seizure. His eyes were the same impossible blue as those of the White Walkers, and at last he made a noise: one long howl of pain and effort and defiance. Then Viserion was above them, crashing down into the godswood with the Night King on his back. They smashed into the weirwood trees and then the undead dragon was thrashing against the ground. Somehow the Night King managed to climb off of the writhing animal, then he turned and plunged a blue spear deep into its neck. With one last scream, it stilled and died again. Thick black blood oozed from the wound as the Night King yanked out his blade and turned toward the defenders.

Jaime ripped Widow’s Wail out of its sheath and prepared himself to fight, sensing rather than seeing the other men doing the same. Bronn let out a war cry that seemed to galvanize them all into motion at once, and they attacked as one.

Later he wouldn’t remember much. It was all blades and blood and ice. Five, six, ten of the men fell, but Jaime kept fighting, looking for any opening for his sword to exploit. Bronn fought beside him, dancing around on nimble feet and hacking with a thick obsidian blade. Then Pod was killed, and the red haze descended over Jaime so fully that it blocked out everything else.

Frantic, eternal minutes passed as they fought, and then he plunged his sword into the Night King, pinning him to the heart tree.

“Move!” screamed a voice from above them, and Bronn was shoving Jaime back before he’d managed to regain conscious control of his body. Daenerys had flown Drogon over to the godswood, and the great black beast let out a burst of dragonfire. The Night King died, pinned through with Vylarian steel and unable to avoid Drogon’s incinerating flames.

The world went silent. Jaime gasped for air, vaguely aware that Bronn was still gripping his arm hard enough to bruise. As sense returned to him, he heard the huge whoosing noise of Drogon landing, and the clanks of armor as the survivors in the godswood moved. The sounds of battle were still ringing in the air, but there were also shouts of victory, of exaltation.

Jaime dragged himself to his feet, amazed that he was still somehow alive. Then he looked to Bran.

The boy was dead, shrouded in frost and slumped over in the chair Jaime had put him in. His eyes were brown again, staring sightlessly at the burning heart tree. A small smile curved his lips, as though he had died knowing that they had won.


End file.
